


saviors and saints, devils and heathens alike

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Inquisitor, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Devotion, Elf Culture & Customs, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Flirting, Kink Negotiation, Love Confessions, M/M, Nudity, Porn with Feelings, Protectiveness, Romance, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Tender Sex, Top Iron Bull, Travel, War, but i'm here now!, sad that i missed this fandom in its heyday, this version of the inquisitor is based on my inquisitor, writing the development of bull and the inquisitor's relationship behind the scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 08:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15263268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: The Inquisitor leapt and spun, daggers flashing through the air, hips pivoting as he leaned into the strike. He landed lightly on his feet, knees bent, chest heaving, eyelids lazily lowered, mouth curled into a euphoric smile. His pearly face, smooth like the porcelain dolls Bull had seen but never owned, was splashed with red, so thoroughly covered that it almost seemed frightening. He considered his kill as Bull had, gazing down at the man whose life he had just taken.Despite how pissed he was at this wholedesertsituation, and at the sticky heat that had draped itself over everything, Bull felt the pulse of a different kind of warmth, deep down where he hid his more primal desires.Well, fuck,was his most coherent thought.





	saviors and saints, devils and heathens alike

All across Ferelden and Orlais, the Inquisition was known for its might, and for the audacity of declaring a Dalish elf the Herald of Andraste. Rumours grew and flourished, emboldened by the paranoia of war and the thrill of new beginnings, skies calm now that an outstretched hand had stitched together the very fabric of the heavens. Refugees flocked en masse to Skyhold, hunched and deformed by sorrow, and only because of the Inquisition did they dare hope they would survive. The innocence of hollow-cheeked children, excitedly recounting tales of majestic warriors traversing borders and smiting demons, took root in a religious reverence that offended the faithful and relieved commoners in equal measure. There was nowhere the Inquisition would not go, it seemed; they could be found beneath the epic force of mountain monsoons, seen beside the twinkling peace of silver streams, infiltrating mines of vile red rock, and tiptoeing the marble halls of wealthy socialites.With feverish enthusiasm, word of the Inquisition grew.

And, with it, gossip of the Inquisitor’s lover.

It wasn’t quite clear how the rumours started, exactly, but with so many eyes focussed on them, it was only natural that suspicion grow. The Inquisitor’s background was extensively researched by multiple interested parties, his clan and family interrogated about his identity, and someone had enough interest in the matter to notice that the elf had never before taken a partner, or ever been seen courting a woman– elven or otherwise. The Dalish were nomadic, so it was suggested that the Inquisitor could have entertained temporary relationships, but such speculations were quickly abandoned in the face of a more juicy possibility. The enthusiasm for every detail of his life grew rampant, and countless dignitaries wrote to Josephine, demanding to know whether the Herald of Andraste preferred the company of men.

Her polite refusal to discuss the matter only served to amplify such theories.

At first, attention fixed on the son of Lord Magister Pavus, and it wasn’t difficult to understand why. Dorian did not hide his preferences, nor did he apologise for them, and it was well-known among Tevinter peoples that his abandonment of his homeland was a direct result of his father attempting to _fix_ him with blood magic. He had eager, bright eyes, dark and smooth as riverbed stones, and a quirked mouth that offered clever flirtations. Him, with his bared brown skin and curled moustache, seemed a pretty picture next to the Inquisitor’s lily-white complexion and slender features, overlaid with an elegant Sylaise tattoo. They were seen laughing together, arms victoriously thrown about each other’s shoulders, perhaps closer than two friends ought to be.

But it became apparent, as time went on, that he was not the one holding the Inquisitor’s attention.

 

***

 

The line of an axe split the skull of a desert mage into two meaty pieces.

The Iron Bull stepped back from the twitching body, considering it with something close to boredom, dissatisfied by the gore shining wetly beneath a searing sun. Blood sizzled and steamed, everything red and brown and yellow in this place, bones bleached white, poking up between grains of sand like the remaining teeth inside diseased gums. Madness had bloomed here, rabid behind the retinas of wanderers, mortals driven insane by the endless wasteland. Even the undulating scales of the Abyssal High Dragon couldn’t temper the Bull’s hatred for this fucking place. He was the last person anyone would consider  _picky,_ but even his patience was being tested after weeks of isolation and dry, cracked atmosphere.

The Bull thirsted for a drink and the supple breasts of a willing barmaid.

For a moment, he watched the mage’s blood seep oddly into the sand, pooling and then sinking, viscous and watery all at once. The texture fascinated him. It was exceeded only, he estimated, by the sight of a man bleeding out on the surface of an icy ground in the dead of winter. There was a yell from nearby, a gurgled shout as another mage went down, splashes of blood dotting the Bull’s armour as knives sliced cleanly through flesh. The Inquisitor leapt and spun, daggers flashing through the air, hips pivoting as he leaned into the strike. He landed lightly on his feet, knees bent, chest heaving, eyelids lazily lowered, mouth curled into a euphoric smile. His pearly face, smooth like the porcelain dolls Bull had seen but never owned, was splashed with red, so thoroughly covered that it almost seemed frightening. He considered his kill as Bull had, gazing down at the man whose life he had just taken.

Despite how pissed he was at this whole _desert_ situation, and at the sticky heat that had draped itself over everything, Bull felt the pulse of a different kind of warmth, deep down where he hid his more primal desires.

 _Well, fuck,_ was his most coherent thought.

The Inquisitor lifted his head, wiped his face on his arm, doing little more than smearing blood about and turning Bull on even more than he already was. If an analogy was to be considered, the elf was a glowing beacon, and the Bull was an insect drawn toward that delicious deathtrap. Green magic flickered and sung on his palm, a power that the leader of the Chargers would openly admit to fearing, and he had never felt more inconsequential in his life. The Inquisitor, or the Herald, whoever or _whatever_ he was, seemed larger than life, immortal legends running through his veins. Bull didn’t know shit about destiny, didn’t buy into the religion of this whole crusade, and certainly didn’t count himself among the fabled army who would defend against apocalyptic darkspawn hoardes. He was just along for the ride, looking to get paid, living by his moral code and looking after his men. If they saved the world along the way then that was an added extra.

But fuck if the _immensity_ of it didn’t arouse him.

Faervel approached him, dripping with the excess of violence, looking like a figure out of Bull’s most sinful dreams. About them lay dozens of bodies, piled high. They’d been ambushed. It was laughable, the thought they could be taken down like a couple of travellers, but the Bull was still impressed by the effectiveness with which the two of them had eliminated the threat… Well. _Impressed_ was probably not the most accurate word. Though it was definitely the most polite.

“We should go back to camp,” Faervel suggested, words edged with breathlessness, “Rest up with the others.”

Bull hummed out an affirmative grunt. The Inquisitor raised his arms, sheathing his blades with a smooth metallic slide, back arching into the movement. He was young, and looked for all the world like a boy still new to this life, but Bull supposed that was how all elves looked to him. And, besides, he moved slow. He moved like he was ready for anything, like he adored the fight as much as Bull did, easy and lithe, weapons so natural an extension of him it was like he’d been born holding those hilts.

It was a foregone conclusion, as far as Bull was concerned.

 

***

 

The blazing heat of daytime hours gave way to the chill of night, the kind of feeling that seeped beneath your clothes and frosted your bones, eating you up like a living thing, clear and sharp as the ring of a bell. The stars stared down from above, only serving to amplify the unending space, the endless fucking terrain. There was no reprieve in this desert. They walked for hours, footsteps slowed by the unsteady surface of sand, and were exhausted by the end.

They went briefly to the camp, where Dorian and Cassandra were amused at best to hear about their adventures with pathetically outmatched bandits, and then quickly moved onto a nearby waterhole to wash up. It was surrounded by gnarled trees. Their leathery bodies were beaten down, twisted almost sideways, distorted by the viscous heat and the deadly cold, warped into a curling mass of bark that stuck out in the landscape.

The pair of them were silent as they undressed, and Bull wondered if his lack of sassy remarks was suspicious to Faervel, or whether the elf just assumed he was tired from the day’s exploits. Either way, his disposition was not questioned, and their armour made metallic scraping sounds as it was removed. Faervel was, very obviously, not shy about his body, which surprised Bull. Most tended to hide themselves, especially around him.

Naked now, Faervel stepped toward the small lake, dipping one foot into the edge, ripples fanning outward from his toes. The water looked inky black in the darkness, and he was all white softness and smooth lines, scars glinting where enemy swords had found their mark beneath gaps in his armour. Bull gazed at him, unable to move. Those shoulders deserved wings, that waist deserved to be held by reverent hands, and even the gently sloped base of his spine begged for pursed lips and an eager tongue. Bull didn’t do poetry. He didn’t usually think past, _Damn, what a fine ass,_ and while he certainly appreciated the pert definition of Faervel’s form, this was a moment elevated beyond his usual crassness. He imagined Faervel atop him, moving slowly, hips swivelling, palms planted against Bull's sternum. In the blue darkness of this desert night, the Inquisitor seemed a vivid dream, a beautiful hallucination that moved gracefully deeper into the shallow water.

The elf turned to glance backward, eyes bright and clear like church windows. There was something wicked about him, about the way he flaunted his body so brazenly. He grinned, eyelids hooded.

“You coming?”

 

 


End file.
